


The New Year

by 3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3 (sandwastesinthevoidofmychest)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The New Year's bells ring in an unexpected event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Year

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I started this on New Years day after witnessing the beauty of the London fireworks on the BBC and I'm only finishing it now...

Some evenings, John Watson thinks he's actually praying to some distant form of God that will only answer to the internal voices of Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock sits there, hands held just below his chin, eyes shut tight.  
Some evenings John returns home, and the man is still there, still praying.  
Some evenings John needs to run up those seventeen steps and check that he is still there, that he hasn't left again.  
Some evenings, John Watson thinks he may just say the things he needs to in case the man will disappear again, John is sure he won't be heard over the prayers that may be floating around the room. 

But each evening Sherlock Holmes is there, stretched out on the couch that John had drifted away on last New Years eve, the contents of a bottle of painkillers scattered across the floor. The distant sounds of fireworks exploding over the Thames.

*  
There had been a momentary confusion, had he died?   
He was staring into the familiar eyes, the eyes of the one he couldn't see in those last moments, the deep blue eyes that stared blankly at him from the pavement, crimson beads slowly making their way towards them, marring them. But this time they were tear-logged and filled with emotions that John had been convinced the man was incapable of feeling. The distant sound of his voice calling his name, the words caressing his name, it sent shivers down his spine. But it had to be a hallucination. 

He had seen those eyes, those dead eyes pointed unseeingly towards him while he tried to feel for a pulse in his friend. When they took him away on a stretcher John was left there on the silent footpath, he almost contemplated doing the same, taking that leap of faith, instead of ringing anyone he knew with a pulse to tell them of his failings, he would scream out all the things he had never said to Sherlock when he had been alive. But Molly had found him.

John had opened his eyes with some difficulty, there was the distant sound of the fireworks coupled with an unceasing ringing of the bells. If you listened really carefully, you would be able to hear the thousands screaming out in joy, waiting for the moment when all war and grievances would be forgotten and they would join hands and sing out in a chorus of 'Auld Lang Sine'. But in front of him was Sherlock Holmes, alive. John had tried to jump up and it was then that he had fainted for the first time in his life, but Sherlock caught him, when John opened his eyes again, the first thing he did was grasp Sherlock's sinewy wrist, revealed the pinpricked and dotted, scarred arm and counted. He closed his eyes and took a shallow breath each time he felt the movement of Sherlock's pulse. “You were dead.” The words, they were weak, they were fragile, just like the man they came from.   
“I was never dead, I just needed you to think so, that was safer for you in all of this.” There was raw emotion in his voice, John opened his eyes and stared into the tear filled blue ones, “I am sorry, I never knew you would be so affected.”At first, the desire to punch Sherlock overcame him, but upon raising his hand to the man, he was pulled into a tight hug. 

That night a year ago, they stopped the last of their threats, a Colonel Sebastian Moran (disgraced).  
*

But now, tonight, John entered and questioned himself once again silently whether the other man was actually praying or thinking about those three years that he had to vanish himself from his beloved London. Because in reality, John had heard the bare minimum, there was no indications of what happened. He knew that James Moriarty had been found atop St. Bart's with a bullet through his brain, a serene smile on his face but he didn't know whether that was before or after the fall. Whether it was in front of Sherlock or not. Whenever he tried to ask, he would be met with a stony silence. So he had given up. He was just glad, glad to the core to have this illuminating man back in his life.

Now it was New Years Eve, a year later.   
They were sitting on opposite sides of the couch in front of the TV, awaiting the New Year. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, “You do know that Mycroft could have gotten us a prime spot for the fireworks if you wanted to see them this badly, he owes us much more than that.”  
“It's better from the comfort and the warmth of your own home.”   
Sherlock's brows knitted, “You haven't been on a date since I came back.” He left off the implied question, knowing John would pick it up anyway: Why?  
John shrugged, taking a sip from his glass of whiskey. “Busy year. More important things came up.”  
Sherlock was silent for a few minutes, his mind racing. “It's a year today.” He whispered, almost inaudibly, it needed to be said. A year since I saw you cry, a year since I cried, a year since I pulled another person into my own arms willingly. One year upon the ringing of the bells.  
“How could I forget.” John mumbled, shaking his head, gaze fixed upon the screen. It was not a question, Sherlock knew this. But he also didn't know how to do this. “I-I'm-”  
“Sherlock, I think over the last year you've apologised enough, okay?” John cast a small smile towards him but it didn't reach his eyes. Sherlock shook his head, ignoring the screen where random people were being asked questions that no one could possibly care about, he shifted in his seat. “I wanted to...try something, I mean-”  
“An experiment? Could it not wait?” John asked, suddenly looking older all of a sudden, Sherlock knew the man was tired, the bags beneath his eyes showed that, (nightmares again, sometimes he could hear his own name being shouted) the lines that framed his face had deepened also and sometimes Sherlock could swear he could see John open his mouth to say something, but quickly shut his mouth as though the words had gotten stuck in his throat. He closed his eyes to compose himself, this was not like him. You should never let your heart rule your head.  
“I...” Sherlock trailed off, sliding closer to John, so that now he was just inches away, trying to gauge this man's, his conductor of light, trying to see how he would react. John didn't move, he just stared questionably at Sherlock. “I want, no, I would like to know would I be able to kiss you?” The words tumbled from his mouth, he sounded unsure. Something inside him growled, he was sure he wanted to kiss John, he had been sure ever since he held him and didn't want to let go of him a year ago, maybe before that. 'Friends protect people' and 'You-you machine.' had replayed over and over in his mind for three years, the venom still stung. 

But now, now John was gaping at him as though someone had replaced his motherboard and a completely different Sherlock Holmes was sitting beside him. Somewhere in the distance, somewhere in the room it didn't matter, bells had started ringing, explosions were scattering in the night sky. But John didn't seem to notice, he didn't realise that the fireworks he had insisted upon watching had begun.   
“God yes.” The words were low, husky. Sherlock had never registered that tone with John before, but now he grabbed the smaller man's shoulders and pulled him in. Their lips hesitated millimetres away from them, both slightly unsure what would come of the action, but sure they wanted it to happen. Their lips brushed together for that sacred first time, there was a slight pressure and a lack of breath. John's lips were softer than Sherlock had previously imagined, and he had closed his eyes when their lips had met, Sherlock, of course wanted desperately to remember and catalogue every second and he stared at this man who he had treated so desperately in order to keep alive. John was the first to pull away, pupils dilated.   
He seemed to hesitate for a second, “Are you sure...?” He whispered, Sherlock could only nod once before John's hand found the back of Sherlock's head, fingers entwining in the curls and pulling Sherlock in (something he had managed that first meeting). Their lips met again, this time with more force, John's tongue ran across Sherlock's bottom lip before Sherlock realised that he was meant to open his mouth, he was desperately trying to remember every move, every breath. Their tongues explored each other's mouth carefully, slowly it was like the most delicate and intricate dance Sherlock had ever experienced. The distant sounds of the fireworks continued unseen, anything could happen.

The hand that wasn't entwined in Sherlock's hair, moved down his spine slowly, brushing off each vertebrae with something akin to reverence, all leading down to the small of Sherlock's spine. Sherlock's hands trembled as they moved (almost of their own accord) up and down John's sides, trying to imagine what his skin felt like, what his body looked like beneath the jumper. Sherlock wanted desperately to trace the scars that John had, place his mouth over his gunshot wound, make John's shoulder into an almost-temple. A holy place, just like the man. Somehow they were both still breathing, they were still dancing, they were so close that their chests brushed against each other every now and again. This is holy ground, Sherlock thought. John had slid down on the sofa slightly, Sherlock leaning over him slightly, casting a shadow across him. John slowly pulled his mouth inches away from Sherlock, his alcohol tainted breath ghosting across Sherlock's face, chest heaving. He could hear John muttering to the gods beneath his breath, but Sherlock could wait, he could begin his worship of this man. His lips trailed over the man's skin, over his cheeks, his forehead, ghosted those warm lips briefly, John was still breathing too heavily to continue. Sherlock's mouth found John's neck and began sucking the skin and biting lightly, John's hands shakily pulled Sherlock up, Sherlock couldn't quite fathom the look of lust upon John's face, he had never seen it so close and now he wondered what his face betrayed to the man beneath him, the one so much better at this emotions lark.   
The truth hopefully.

John's breath had evened out but his cheeks were flushed and it appeared that he couldn't help but to smile. He was now holding Sherlock's head in both his hands, “I need to know if this is just an experiment to you?” His voice was quiet, nervous. Sherlock remained silent, his expression confused. My face must have betrayed me. John glanced towards the television, sighed once “We missed the fireworks after all. One year. Happy new year, Sherlock.” Sherlock was almost convinced that John was about to close the distance between them and kiss him again, but John shook his head, almost as though he was reading Sherlock's thoughts. If he could, he would know.  
“Please?” There was a note of something in his voice and Sherlock was unable to place it, but it made his skin prickle.   
“I don't know...it's-” before he could continue, he could feel John's grip on him slacken and a look of disappointment that couldn't be hidden by the best actor. Sherlock shook his head swiftly, grasped John's wrists and pulled them to rest on his chest, to feel the beat of his heart under his shirt. He didn't quite know what it was that he was doing, but he knew that the chemicals had been released and this was their reaction and he would do what they said because he knew he could trust chemistry and he could trust John.   
“You...you are illuminating and you make me feel human, you remind me that I'm not immortal, even when I don't quite believe it myself. I know that I feel things for you that I cannot name, that I don't understand” His face twisted a little, and John couldn't help but to smile a little. “Kissing you there was like solving a fulfilling case with a greater rush and I want to explore you and I want to document everything about you.” 

John shook his head slowly, “Sherlock.” His voice was low, it quivered, “The fact is that you get bored. You get bored. Cases end for you. So if we were to go forward tonight, tomorrow morning you'd be bored, maybe you wouldn't regret it as such because to you it was a case, but that would be all it is to you. You see?”   
Sherlock sighed, “Cases can last for years, there are cold cases that have lasted for hundreds of years...” He caught John's look of disbelief, “Maybe. I'm just trying to show you that I'm not going to get bored. I chose this career, these cases because they are the only things that stimulate me, I don't get bored of cases and then I met you and suddenly it's not just the cases that matter. Every day that I was gone, I thought about you. I hoped you were safe. I did all of this for you.”   
John closed his eyes and raised his head towards the light, Sherlock watched the muscles move below the skin on his neck. He felt vulnerable saying all of this. Admitting it. Part of it.   
Finally, John spoke. “The thing is, you don't know if you're going to get bored or not, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock shook his head and placed his hands on John's shoulders, “Here's some news for you.” He whispered, leaning in closer to John who opened his eyes to watch Sherlock, “No one knows if they're going to get bored of a person, neither do you, John. You could wake up tomorrow and decide that you've made the worst mistake of your life and flee into the London smog. We don't know, I hate it, but we can't say for certain.” Sherlock paused to order his thoughts, “That's what I hate, we could have a chemical reaction, which is so predictable and sure, but then our emotions get the better of us. It's hateful, but it's a fact of life.”   
“I haven't gotten bored of you yet.” John whispered.  
“Nor I of you.” Sherlock replied calmly, “The fact is we could sit here all night thinking about the 'what ifs' and we'd get no where. I'm no expert, but I've seen it done enough to know it can destroy something perfectly good.”   
John bit his lip, feeling as though that the inevitable was going to happen, but worried about the consequences. He shook his head, “You're right.”  
“Obviously.” Sherlock replied, his hands moving to caress John's face and with John's nod of approval, he leaned in for another kiss. 

There would be many kisses that night, some soft and delicate, others hungry filled with lust and need. The definition of companionship would change and re-draft itself that night also, as they became entwined with the other's body. As there was a ceremony of what could be described as worship, reverent touches and expressions of ecstasy.

All this would lead to the next morning, where upon stirring, John heard Sherlock's voice at his ear, “I'm not bored yet”, and he couldn't help but move his exhausted body to place a kiss on the other man's mouth, before laying back down and falling into a deep sleep, locked in the protective hold of Sherlock's arms.


End file.
